Murder of a Chocolate-Covered Cherry

by Denise Swanson

  “It sure has.” Skye turned and leaned against the railing. “I noticed it was really bad at the factory this morning.”

  “That’s the one thing I hate about Illinois springs.” Wally put an arm around her and cuddled her to his side. “The high winds drive me crazy.”

  “Yeah. I can take the snow and the cold, but the wind gets on my last nerve.” She shivered. “You know, for a minute there, when we first ran into the bedroom, I could have sworn it was Mrs. Griggs pounding on the balcony door.”

  “You have quite an imagination,” Wally teased.

  “True, but that’s the kind of dress she wore, and I find it odd that one so similar not only got wrapped around such a large branch, but also found its way to my balcony.”

  “You live on the river in the middle in a flat area. All sorts of trash blows through here.”

  “Maybe.” Skye shrugged.

  They were quiet for a few minutes; then Wally said, “I bet this is old Mrs. Calvert’s dress. She’s your nearest neighbor, and she wears clothes like this.”

  “Sure. It couldn’t possibly have been another of the house’s attempts to keep us apart.”

  “Of course not.”

  “It’s getting cold out here.” Skye separated herself from Wally. “I’m going back.”

  “Yeah.” Wally opened the door for her and stepped inside as she crossed the threshold.

  Bingo had recovered from his trauma and was curled in a ball on top of the bed, snoring lightly. Skye gave him a pat as she walked by, and Wally followed suit.

  Once they were resettled in the sunroom, Skye felt restless. Wally tried to resume their kissing, but she shrugged him off and paced. Finally she said, “Let’s get out of here for a while. The paint smell is driving me crazy.”

  “Okay. Where do you want to go?”

  She was about to suggest they get a drink somewhere, but caught back the words when she remembered that Wally was still in his uniform. Where could they go? There weren’t a lot of entertainment options in Scumble River.

  “How about McDonald’s?” Wally asked. “I’ll buy you a hot-fudge sundae.”

  “Perfect.”

  McDonald’s was crowded. It was a favorite hangout for the teens, several of whom greeted Skye. It was nice to see that quite a few of them also said hi to Wally, and that none of the kids seemed to feel awkward in their presence.

  After getting their sundaes, Skye and Wally settled into a back booth. They were still in the process of taking the lids off their ice-cream containers when Skye stiffened and put her finger to her lips.

  Wally shot her a questioning look.

  She jerked her chin to the booth on the other side of theirs, then cupped her ear.

  He nodded and leaned forward.

  A group of girls from the high school was seated there, and two were arguing. Skye immediately identified the dominant voice as that of Bitsy Kessler, a preppy cheerleader who wrote an advice column for the school newspaper. Skye didn’t recognize the other girl.

  Bitsy’s tone was scornful. “I can’t believe you losers think that Ashley has really been kidnapped. I’ll bet you still leave milk and cookies for Santa, too.”

  The other girl murmured something too low for Skye to hear, but Bitsy’s next words were loud and clear. “Yeah, right. Poor little Ashley. The victim of the Scumble River Snatcher. She’s probably holed up in a motel room with some guy, laughing her ass off at all of us.”

  “Why would you think that?” the other girl challenged.

  “Ashley’s the biggest social climber since Cinderella. This whole negative article in the newspaper and her parents’ insisting on suing over her little indiscretion with the basketball team pissed her off.

  “It just pointed out that her family is so blue-collar. You don’t see Paris Hilton’s mother suing when her sexploitations are printed in a newspaper. All the knockoff Vera Bradley purses and last-season Emma Hope sneakers in the world can’t change who your parents are. Even her North Face jacket is last season’s from a secondhand shop.”

  “But how does running away help?” The other girl sounded confused.

  “What better way to get back at everyone? Her parents are worried sick. The girl who wrote the nasty stuff about her is suspected of the kidnapping. And the superintendent is threatening to shut down the newspaper. All things Ashley would love to see happen.”

  Skye shot Wally a meaningful glance.

  His look said it was a plausible explanation.

  “But where would they be hiding?” Ashley’s defender sounded less sure than she had at first.

  “Where else is there around here but Mr. Patukas’s motel?” Bitsy paused, and Skye heard the sound of a straw sucking up air rather than liquid. “It’s not like Ashley would go camping.”

  Once the teens moved on to another subject, Skye scooped a spoonful of ice cream covered in chocolate into her mouth, then asked in a low voice, “What do you think?”

  Wally finished his sundae, wiped his mouth on his napkin, and answered, “Maybe we should stop by Charlie’s and see if Miss Ashley is in residence.”

  “All but one of the cottages are rented for contest personnel, and don’t we think your father has that one?”

  “Who knows?” He lifted a shoulder. “Someone could have canceled.”

  “True.” Skye plucked the cherry from the bottom of her dish. “Doesn’t it seem like the contest and the kidnapping and the murder have all been going on forever?”

  “Uh-huh. Hard to believe how short the time really has been. Ashley’s only been gone a day and a half, and the murder took place this morning.”

  Skye popped the cherry into her mouth, slid out of the booth, and walked toward the wastebasket with their trash. “And with that in mind, I think we should get moving and kill two birds with one stone.”

  Wally followed her to the exit. “You mean …?” He held open the door.

  “Exactly. Let’s go look for Miss Ashley and then pay your father a little visit.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Set Aside Beaten Mixture

  Skye and Wally pulled into the Up A Lazy River Motor Court a few minutes after ten. The red neon NO VACANCY sign glowed steadily, and of the dozen cabins that formed a horseshoe around the parking lot, the front windows in all but number twelve were pitch-black. Scumble Riverites went to bed when the WGN nine-o’clock news ended, and visitors soon fell into the same routine.

  Skye stared at the darkened motel, feeling her investigative fervor waver. “Maybe we should come back tomorrow morning. We don’t want to wake people up, do we?”

  Wally jerked his chin toward the well-lit office-bungalow that blossomed like a pimple on the lip of the frowning row of cottages. “Looks like Charlie’s still up. Let’s see what he has to say.”

  “Right. Surely he knows who he rented his cabins to.”

  When there was no response to her first knock, Skye hesitated. Maybe Uncle Charlie had fallen asleep in front of the TV. She hated to wake him.

  Wally clearly had no such concern and reached around her to knock a second time on the old wooden door. This time they heard the creak of the La-Z-Boy as the footrest was lowered, then heavy steps approaching where they stood. The blue gingham curtain was snatched aside, and Charlie’s face appeared in the little window, his round head looking like a jack-o’-lantern floating in the glass.

  Abruptly the cotton cloth dropped back into place and the door was swung open. “What’s wrong? What are you two doing here at this time of night? Is it May?”

  Skye had never quite figured out how her mother and Charlie had become so close. In the past she’d even wondered if they’d once had an affair, but she’d finally realized that Charlie’s love for May was paternal, and May recipro-cated with daughterly affection. Both fulfilled a need in the other. Charlie had never married or had children, and May’s father had died while she was still a teenager.

  “Mom’s fine, Uncle Charlie,” Skye hurried to reassure him. “Sorry to
give you a scare. We just have a few questions about a couple of your guests.”

  Charlie stepped away from the doorway and gestured for them to come inside. “This have something to do with the murder?” He pointed to the sofa and settled himself in his lounger.

  “No, with the missing girl.” Wally sat down and leaned forward with his hands dangling between his legs.

  Skye sat next to him. She watched her godfather as Wally told him what they had heard at McDonald’s. Charlie had been one of the very few people in town who had not expressed his views about Skye breaking up with Simon and starting to date Wally. It had been unusual for him not to wade in with an opinion, and now she wondered what he thought and why he had kept silent.

  Something flitted through her mind, but before she could figure out what, she tuned in to what Charlie was saying.

  “There’s no way that girl could be here, unless one of those contest people is hiding her, and I can’t quite see Grandma Sal stashing her in her bathtub, can you?”

  Skye started to shake her head, but then took a second to think of the people involved before saying, “Well, you know, those media people would hide a teenager in a flash if she could convince them there would be a big story. And Brandon and JJ might have other reasons for sharing their room with a cute cheerleader. But you’re probably right about the judges, Grandma Sal, her son, and her daughter-in-law being in the clear.”

  Before Charlie could respond, Wally asked, “Wouldn’t the lady who cleans the cabins for you mention an extra person? I mean, I know you charge more for additional guests.”

  Charlie nodded. “That’s true normally, but Grandma Sal is paying for the whole block of cabins, so I gave her one rate. And I had to hire a couple extra ladies to help with the cleaning, so they might not think to mention something like that. I can give you their names and you can ask them.”

  “I’ll have Quirk talk to them tomorrow morning. What time do they get here?”

  “They start at eight.”

  Charlie picked up a cigar and ran it between his sausage-like fingers. He had given up smoking a couple years ago after a health scare, but Skye knew he still liked to hold a cigar, especially when he was agitated. What could be bothering him?

  “Uncle Charlie, have you seen anything out of the ordinary? Maybe an incident that, now that you think about it, might have something to do with the missing girl or the murder?” Skye asked, trying to cover all the bases. Charlie wouldn’t lie to her, but he might not volunteer information. She knew her godfather had his secrets.

  “No, can’t say as I have.” Charlie put the cigar down and took a pull on his beer can. “You want a Budweiser?”

  “No, thanks, Charlie.” Wally leaned a little closer to the older man. “Sorry to bother you so late, but we have one more question.”

  “Oh?” Charlie picked up the cigar again.

  “It’s about the twelfth cabin.” Skye leaned forward too. “I thought you told Uncle Dante that it had been rented for four months straight by somebody, and that’s why you couldn’t let the contest people have it.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Charlie said, narrowing his eyes. “What about it?”

  “Well, then, why did you let some guy rent it yesterday?”

  “I didn’t. I mean, the guy who’s in cabin twelve is the guy who’s rented it since January.” Charlie relaxed. “He got a new haircut and is driving a different kind of car, that’s all.”

  Wally and Skye exchanged a long look; then Wally asked, “What’s his name?”

  “Brown, Charles Brown.”

  Another long look passed between Skye and Wally, but this time she spoke. “How did he pay for the room?”

  “Cash on the barrelhead. Thirty dollars a night times one hundred and twenty nights: three thousand, six hundred dollars in hundred-dollar bills.” Charlie smiled in fond remembrance. “Between Mr. Brown and the contest, the Up A Lazy River is going to have a good first quarter.”

  “So you didn’t see the guy’s ID?” Wally stated.

  “No, why would I need to?”

  “And you didn’t think it was a little comical that Charlie Brown was renting your cabin?” Skye asked, exasperated with her godfather’s nonchalance. “Did you check to see if he had Snoopy with him?”

  “There’s nothing funny about thirty-six hundred dollars. And you know I don’t allow pets.”

  For the second straight day, Skye woke to a buzzing alarm at the appalling hour of five a.m. Once again she hurried through her morning ablutions and choked down a cup of scalding tea—burning her tongue in the process, which added to her bad temper.

  Why in the world had she agreed with Wally when he had encouraged Grandma Sal to continue the contest? Right now she could still be curled up under the covers, dreaming that she and Hugh Jackman were dancing cheek-to-cheek on a white sand beach in the Caribbean.

  But no. Instead she was standing in the cold wind waiting to be picked up by her mother in order to go cook a dish that had yet to come out of the oven in an edible state. And to top it all off, last night had not ended well.

  When she and Wally had left Charlie’s they’d walked over to cabin twelve, which still had a lamp burning in its front window. But as soon as Wally rapped on the door, the light was snapped off and the drapes drawn. Finally, after half a dozen knocks, each more insistent than the one before, Skye had persuaded Wally to give up.

  By then neither had been in the mood for romance, and he had dropped her off at her house with only a quick goodnight kiss. Not exactly how she had expected her Saturday night to end.

  Now Sunday morning felt like déjà vu to Skye as she slid into the passenger side of May’s Oldsmobile, slumped back on the seat, and closed her eyes.

  At least this time May’s voice wasn’t chirpy when she said good morning.

  Skye opened one eye and muttered a greeting.

  May drove a mile or so in silence, then said, almost as if she were desperate for a topic, “I didn’t see you in church last night. Did you forget you wouldn’t have time to go this morning?”

  Skye nodded, unwilling to go into a full explanation of what had distracted her. “Maybe I can cut cooking practice short and run over for eight-o’clock Mass.”

  “If you go to confession God will forgive you for missing Mass, but Grandma Sal won’t forgive your macaroni being rubbery no matter how many prayers you say.”

  Skye knew that May was intent on one of her recipes winning the contest, but she had thought that the state of her immortal soul might sway her mother. Clearly May was willing to take a chance that Skye might burn in hell if it meant taking home the gold.

  After a few minutes of blessed silence, Skye asked, “How’s Uncle Dante?”

  “Fine. They’re letting him out of the hospital this morning, and he’s holding a press conference at city hall to inform everyone that he nearly lost his life while trying to help Scumble River grow.”

  “Better tell him to spread the word that he didn’t see his attacker.”

  “Why?” May’s head jerked toward Skye. “Do you think whoever did it might try again?”

  “Duh.” Sometimes Skye forgot that her mother had taken up permanent residence in the land of denial, and that almost nothing could make her apply for a passport out of that realm. “It’s also why you have to keep quiet about the person who helped you yesterday morning. If anyone asks, you don’t remember a thing.”

  “So I’ve been told.” May scowled. “I’m not as dumb as you think, missy.”

  Skye bit her lip before something sarcastic slipped out. If her mother didn’t win the contest she’d be looking for someone to blame, and Skye wasn’t about to paint a bright red target on her backside by upsetting May right before she started cooking.

  They were both quiet until they pulled into the factory parking lot. Then, as she shut off the car’s engine, May asked, “Do you think any of the contestants will drop out?”

  “No.” Skye stepped from the Olds. “In fact,
I heard that Grandma Sal offered Cherry’s slot to the runner-up, and that person snapped it up.”

  “Anyone we know?” May’s voice came from inside the trunk of the car as she leaned in to get her belongings.

  “I didn’t ask.” Skye plucked a box from her mother’s arms as May emerged. “But probably not.” She took a step toward the warehouse, then turned to look at May. “Unless you entered a fifth time.”

  May shushed Skye. “Keep your voice down. Are you deliberately trying to get us in trouble?”

  Skye raised an eyebrow. “I thought we weren’t doing anything against the rules.”

  “We aren’t, but I don’t want them to write any new ones,” May retorted as she hurried through the door.

  In the cooking area, Skye put the carton on her mother’s counter. Not surprisingly, they were the first to arrive, but even as Skye headed toward her own space, she heard the door open and a voice she recognized stopped her in her tracks.

  “Earl, you are stupider than an idiot. If I didn’t need it for my secret recipe, I’d knock you into Tuesday with my castiron skillet.”

  Skye cringed. It couldn’t be. Slowly she turned her head and looked behind her with slitted eyes. Shit! Just what they needed. As if the murder, the missing teenager, Wally’s father, and the contest weren’t enough, standing at Cherry Alexander’s cooking area, dressed as if she were about to sing a duet with Johnny Cash, was Glenda Doozier.

  Kneeling at Glenda’s cowgirl-booted feet was Earl Doozier, Glenda’s husband and the patriarch of the Red Raggers. Skye ducked behind a stove and edged away from the pair.

  The Red Raggers were hard to explain to anyone who hadn’t grown up in Scumble River. They were the ones your mother meant when she warned you not to go into certain parts of town. They were the ones who were most often complained about in the newspaper’s “Shout Out” column—but only by people who never signed their names, because no one was foolish enough to purposely get the Red Raggers sore at them. In short, they were the ones whose family tree didn’t branch—and that single trunk was full of dry rot.